


Right there with you

by FatHobbitLover (orphan_account)



Series: Nearly Okay [1]
Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Falling In Love, Father-Son Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Iraq, M/M, Self-Doubt, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-16
Updated: 2013-07-16
Packaged: 2017-12-20 08:29:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/885150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/FatHobbitLover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU: In 2013, in a world where they've never even heard the names Ada Wong or Neo-Umbrella, Chris Redfield and Piers Nivans, two soldiers with the same rank on the same field, are home from Iraq for the first time in a long time.</p><p>This piece takes place before <i>A Clear Shot</i>, explaining more of Chris and Piers' life in Iraq, and the events leading up to their return home.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Right there with you

**Author's Note:**

> "I remember when I saw you for the first time.  
> You were laughing,  
> sparking like a new dime.  
> I came over,  
> 'Hello, can you be mine?'  
> can you be mine,  
> can you be mine?"
> 
> \- Lana Del Rey

  
  
Piers can still remember the exact day he gave his heart to Chris Redfield.

It was when they were still out in the field- out on one of their tours. And they'd been chosen for one of the IED scout-outs, a morning convoy, 500 hours sharp and on the road in the Humvee, Chris driving, Jake and Piers in the back with Marco and Andy and Carl and Ben and Keaton.

They didn't even see the damn thing.

It wasn't even that loud.

Kind of like a _thrum_ and a _boom_ mixed.

_Th-boom._

White, smoke, dirt.

Then the fire, after all that. And the screams, and the cussing, and the blood. The first time you're hit with a roadside bomb is never the last.

Piers thinks for a second that his right side is gone, completely, and he stares at it.

 _Hey, Jake,_ he says, who is next to him. _I think my side is gone._

He looks over for a response but Jake isn't there, having already struggled out of his seatbelt and kicked through the tank's door. And his side is kinda starting to hurt now. His palm comes away wet and red when he lifts it to look.

There's an acrid smell and he realizes that the stench is burning flesh. He's not sure if its his. But his side hurts.

Someone is tugging on his seatbelt.

 _Chris,_ he says, putting a name with a face. _My side._

 _Jesus,_ says Chris. _I know, I know, I know- shit, this thing is a piece of fucking shit-_

Piers struggles against the restraint, his glasses slipping over his nose, going crooked. His side really hurts now and he wants out, real bad. He can just glimpse the door through his smoke-fogged lenses, glimpse the waves of the one-hundred-and-ten-degree heat waiting for him outside, and the thick, black smoke that's pouring into the baby-blue sky. _Fuck, Chris- please, get me out._

 _Jesus,_ Chris says again, fingers working frantically at the seatbelt. _Piers, I'm trying-_

 _I'm stuck._ Piers inhales a lungful of the oily smoke and starts coughing. _Shit. It's the buckle, Chris, see it-_

_Yeah, yeah, I know-_

_It's twisted, Chris, look at the fucking metal, the blast must've wedged it in there, it's stuck-_

_I fucking **know!** Jesus, Piers-_

He's working faster, now, tearing at the buckle, slamming his hands down on the release, swearing foully. _Damn it,_ he says, when it refuses to give. _Fuck!_

 _Knife,_ says Piers. He's eyeing the fire, which is creeping closer to the Humvee's gas tank. _Knife, Chris, get your knife-_

Chris searches the clips on his belt, then the pockets on his chest, then the pouches on the thighs of his pants. He grasps at nothing, and pales. _Shit,_ he breathes, _it must've fallen out when we got hit-_

_Damn it, then use mine, get mine-_

Chris's fingers fumble through Piers' belt, his hands grasping Piers' hips. He finds the knife.

_Cut it-_

The blade begins to saw through the strap holding Piers down. But it's so incredibly, painfully slow, so agonizingly deliberate, and Piers shoots another desperate glance at the fire's path, trembling fingers pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

He doesn't usually panic. But he is panicking now. The flames lick up at the edges of the gas tank. More smoke billows out, and Chris grits his eyes against it, face sooty, teeth bared, knife in fist, sawing at the seatbelt.

He's not even halfway through.

 _Chris,_ says Piers.

 _No,_ Chris snaps.

_Listen, it's okay._

_No._

_Chris, I mean it-_

_I said no. NO._

Chris's fist tightens and he works faster. The seatbelt gives another half-inch. Piers' eyes are watering and the smoke is only half of the reason why.

 _It's gonna blow,_ he says.

_Piers-_

_Get out. It's okay, just go._

The flames are jumping up around the gas tank. Chris screams curses, the knife too dull, too slow, the seatbelt too thick, not giving.

But he doesn't waver, and he doesn't give up. It's what Piers always admired about him.

 _We're getting out of here together,_ Chris snarls.

Piers looks at the fire and the gas. Then back at Chris and the seatbelt.

 _Sorry,_ he says. _But we're not._

_Wha...what are you-?_

Chris doesn't have time to wrap his head around the steeled look in Piers' eyes or the change in his tone before the sniper is lifting both feet up, drawing them back, and powering a kick, with all the strength he can muster up, directly into the larger man's chest.

Chris tumbles backward, out of the Humvee. The knife drops to the ground.

 _Chris!_ yells Jake as he sees him, running towards the truck, voice hoarse, and then he's dragging Chris away from the burning wreckage just as Chris lunges towards it.

 _PIERS!_ Chris bellows.

 _No,_ Jake cries, _you can't, you'll fucking kill yourself trying to fucking save him-_

_PIERS! PIERS! GOD DAMN IT, PIERS-_

There's movement, inside of the Humvee. Chris can see him inside, see his hands still tugging on the seatbelt, still fighting even as the flames burned a hole through the gas tank, beginning to lick it up hungrily.

 _Chris,_ Piers shouts, and their eyes lock, desperate and watering and crusted with grime. _Damn it, Chris, listen. As long as you-_

boom.

The IED wasn't so loud. Neither is the explosion of the Humvee.

If there could be any way to give away his heart, Piers thinks, before fire envelops his vision, it would be like this.

He's glad it's Chris, receiving it.

\----------------------------

 _Why don't you tell me what happened?_ army officer colonel Albert Wesker asks him.

Jake rubs at his eyes. He feels like he's already been over it a hundred times- with the guys from other battalions, with the medics carting the bodies away.

 _Start from the beginning,_ Wesker says, and it sounds more like an order now.

The soldier sighs. _Yessir,_ he says, and starts in on it. _I was next to Lieutenant Piers Nivans, back of the Humvee, far left seat. IED hit and everything just went dark, you know, and no one could see shit-_

 _Language,_ Wesker says sharply.

Jake's an open book, easy to read, and he's pissed at the interruption. But if Wesker notices he doesn't let on and doesn't look up- just clicks his pen open and makes a note on a file on his desk.

 _Continue,_ he says.

Jake obeys. _No one could see a thing. And then the smoke cleared and I saw the door and so I unstrapped myself and just got out._

 _Without Nivans,_ adds Wesker, looking through the paperwork instead of looking at Jake.

Jake's jaw tightens. _Yessir,_ he answers quietly.

Wesker makes a noise in the back of his throat- one that sounds uncannily like disappointment. He scribbles another something on one of the pages in front of him. I see. _And then?_

 _I saw Private First Class Keaton, passenger side, trying to get out of the truck,_ Jake says. _So I ran over to him and opened the door and dragged him out._

_What was Keaton's status at the time?_

_He was doin' okay. I guess. For an IED blast._

_Injuries sustained?_

_Blood gushin' outta his leg. Sir. He'd gotten a chunk of shrapnel mid-thigh but it wasn't life threatening._

Wesker makes another note, pen nib scratching over the paper. Jake wipes his sweaty palms off on his sides. _Okay,_ Wesker says. _And then?_

Jake pauses. _Uh...well, Keaton couldn't walk, so I pulled him over to Doc-_

_Who is...?_

_Airhart. And then-_

Wesker clears his throat, looking up over the rims of his glasses for the first time since Jake has set foot in his office. _Titles, please._

Jake bristles, stiffening, clenching and unclenching his hands into fists. _Specialist Ben Airhart._

 _Go on,_ Wesker orders, satisfied.

_I got Keaton over to the Specialist. And Airhart took Keaton and started to, you know, push down on his leg, pack it and tourniquet it. I said, 'you got him' and Airhart said 'yeah' so then I went back to the Humvee and Second Lieutenant Alfonso is on the ground, bleeding out, and I said- 'hey, Carl, talk to me' but he didn't answer so I just kinda slung him over my shoulder and went back to Airhart._

Wesker murmurs something to himself, then raises his voice to address Jake. _How was Keaton, at this point?_

_Okay. Doc got his leg taped and gauzed up, ready for evac._

_And the Second Lieutenant?_

Jake pauses, glances down.

 _Shrapnel went through the back of his helmet, sliced his skull open, so he was bleeding from underneath his helmet,_ he says softly. _And his back, sir. Multiple wounds. His left leg..._

Jake's voice fails him.

Wesker waits patiently, face like stone, razored-eyed fixated unblinkingly on his. _The leg, private?_ he asks at last, tone gentler than before.

 _Amputated from the knee,_ Jake says, voice cracking. _There was so much blood, Dad._

Wesker blinks, and his composure seems to slip, just for a moment.

But then the moment passes, and he goes back to his paperwork. _Next?_

Jake takes a breath. _Airhart took Alfonso. I asked him if I could do anything and he told me to take Keaton to the evac Humvee. I had to pick Keaton up because he passed out while Airhart was working on him. I put him in the back of the truck and he kinda got swarmed by the medics in there. Then I went back over to the site and Second Lieutenant Marco Rose was screaming something at me but I dunno what it was. I saw First Lieutenant Nivans was still in the back of the Humvee and ran over to it. Then First Lieutenant Redfield fell outta the door of the truck and I grabbed him._

Wesker's pen stops scratching. He pauses. _The report I have reads that Nivans actually pushed Redfield out of the Humvee._

_Yeah, I guess._

_Do you know why?_

Jake shrugs. _Sure. I mean, it's not so hard to figure out...sir. They're best friends. Nivans didn't want him to get hurt._

_That's a bit self-sacrificial, don't you think?_

Jake just shrugs again.

 _All right,_ Wesker says irritably. _Continue._

_I grabbed Redfield, and he tried to get back into the Humvee- tryin' to get at Nivans. I pulled him back. He kinda started fighting me-_

_Fantastic,_ Wesker says, shaking his head. _Fantastic soldier. You understand, Jacob? You do whatever you can, in situations like this._

 _He wasn't thinking straight,_ Jake says sharply. _Sir._

 _Self-sacrifice,_ Wesker says, like he doesn't even hear Jake. _That's what's important in a soldier. That's what makes a nineteen-year-old maggot a man._

_The guy was trying to kill himself!_

_Something,_ Wesker says loudly, _that some in this battalion will never understand, much less live up to._

 _Dad,_ says Jake. _For Christ's sake, Dad-_

_I understand the rest of the report, and appreciate your testimony, soldier. You are relieved._

Jake looks at him for a long time. Wesker never raises his eyes to meet his gaze again. And so at last Jake lifts his chin and salutes.

 _Yessir,_ he says.

\----------------------------

Piers lies in a hospital bed, wrapped in bandages. The sheets are soft and the pillows are fluffed- it's probably the best sleep he's gotten in months, Chris thinks. Of course, it's probably also the worst.

 _Fucking cockroach,_ Jake says. _That's what he is._

It's the look on Chris's face that makes him roll his eyes. _Christ, Redfield, it's not supposed to be an insult._

 _Right,_ says Chris. _Because calling someone a 'cockroach' could never be taken offensively._

_Dude, he survived a fucking explosion. Like a full-on mushroom cloud. Go on- look me in the eyes and tell me that there is nothing even particularly cockroach-y about that._

Chris looks him in the eyes. _There is nothing even particularly cockroachy about-_

_Shut the fuck up, Teddy._

Piers' heartbeat is recorded on a monitor, the soft beeps as reassuring as the way his fingers curl and uncurl in his sleep. He hasn't yet been conscious enough to recognize anything or anyone.

Jake regards him scathingly. _Dude, he's been in here more than everyone on Alpha together. It's either a miracle or this guy is really fucking lucky. And I don't believe in miracles._

 _He's reckless,_ says Chris, frowning. _And luck always runs out._

Jake looks at him. Then pauses. Then clears his throat. _You know that he, uh...kind of saved your life. Right, Teddy?_

 _Reckless,_ Chris says again. _He didn't have to go all sacrificial on me. I could've cut through the belt._

 _Yeah,_ says Jake, sighing. _Whatever you say, big guy._

\----------------------------

Jake stops by now and then but Chris always stays- and his reward is the pure relief crosses Piers' face when he finally fully comes to, and Chris is the first person he sees.

 _Hey, you,_ says Chris.

Piers tries to say something, expression urgent. _No- don't talk,_ Chris tells him, and Piers does as he's told. Maybe it's because the attempt hurts his throat, or because the wrap around his skull and cheek makes it hard to move his mouth. More likely it's because he can see the sparks of concern underneath Chris's steady blue eyes.

 _You've been out for a month,_ Chris tells him. _You'd come in and out of conscious every so often, but this is the first time you've been able to recognize your surroundings. Not so bad, considering._

He's bandaged all over. The flesh underneath the bandages throbs sorely. He looks at Chris, whimpering, eyes pleading to know.

Chris drops his gaze to the floor, but he can't lie. _They had to do some grafts,_ he says softly. _The scars'll show. Just a bit._

Piers stares at the ceiling.

 _It's not so bad,_ Chris says. _You're alive, at least. Right?_

Piers turns his head away. Chris puts a hand out and touches the back of the sniper's neck, lightly, so it won't hurt.

 _And there's some more good news,_ Chris says, trying to cheer him up. _You had a half year left in the service, but your injuries were so...so critical that they discharged you. You're a free man, Nivans. How about that?_

Piers doesn't look at him.

_I'm out, too. My time expired two weeks ago. Been here ever since. We'll be heading back to the U.S. on the same plane._

Piers closes his eyes.

_You got somewhere to go, buddy? You got a girl to go back to, or parents, or something?_

He leans forward to see the sniper's face. Piers is crying, tears squeezing out from beneath closed eyelids, shaking his head.

 _Oh, Christ. Nah, Piers, c'mon. Don't worry,_ Chris says. _I'll take care of you, okay? I've got you, buddy._

Piers turns back over facing him, one hand reaching out, and Chris grabs it and holds on. _You're gonna be just fine,_ Chris tells him.

He almost believes it.

\----------------------------

Jake stops by again two nights later, when Piers is sleeping quietly and Chris is watching him, eyelids drooping, a half-finished cup of coffee cradled in his hands.

 _Fuck,_ says Jake by way of greeting, pausing in the doorway. _Man, haven't you gotten any sleep at all?_

_Hey, Jake._

Jake scratches behind his ear. _You almost look worse than the one with third-degree burns on his ass,_ he tells Chris. _A rather blatant way to put it,_ thinks Chris, but he's right.

 _I got a little rest this morning,_ he says. _Been awake since then._

 _Get some sleep,_ Jake says. _I'll stay awake in case Cockroach wakes up._

_Can we please not stick with the cockroach thing? It's not really a great nickname._

_Nicknames aren't supposed to be great. C'mon, you let me call you Teddy._

Chris grunts.

 _Okay,_ Jake relents, _fine. He's more of a...Noodles, anyway. You know, cuzza the skinny noodle arms...but that's not the point. You need to rest, Chris. Give it a break._

_I'm fine._

_Chris-_

_I'm fine, Jake._

_I can do the whole 'stand-silent-guard' thing, you know. He knows you're human- he doesn't expect you to be here the entire time._

_I'm fine,_ Chris repeats, and Jake drops it.

They sit there for a minute or two, watching the machines flash and beep at them. Piers mumbles something incoherently and Chris leans forward intently, but the sniper just sighs and slips deeper into unconsciousness.

 _You know,_ says Jake, leaning back in his chair and putting his feet up on the edge of Piers' hospital bed, _usually, when someone wants something, they take it._

Chris looks up. _Excuse me?_

Jake waves a hand in the air. _You know- say I wanted a burger. I would get my ass to a joint and buy a god damned burger._ He crosses his arms behind his head. _And then I would eat it. That's the way a real guy does it._

_You're telling me I should find a burger joint?_

_I'm telling you to jump the kid's bones,_ Jake says flatly, nodding at Piers. _Jesus fucking Christ, Redfield._

 _He's not a kid,_ Chris blurts, and then _what is that supposed to mean?_

_Oh, come on- seriously, now. Noodles follows you around like a sick puppy. You honestly don't notice?_

Chris just stares. _We're friends._

 _Yeah,_ Jake says, sarcasm heavy, _and Colonel Wesker is a fantastic father. You've got role models, yeah? And you've got your parents, Claire, your friends back home. Who does Noodles have? You._ He pokes Chris's chest, like that'll further his point.

_I'm just sayin, Teddy. Give it a shot, or whatever. You might be surprised._

_We're friends,_ Chris says again, eyes flashing; Jake shuts his mouth. It's the first time he's had to use the excuse, and it'll be far from the last.

\----------------------------

They go their separate ways, after the plane lands, and it is not Chris's idea nor Chris's intentions.

Piers' scars are still healing, and he's got his army hoodie pulled up, scowling at whoever stares for too long. He refuses to use the cane the hospital provided for him, limping along next to Chris as they step through the exit gate into the U.S.

Chris's parents' faces light up when they see him; Claire squeals, waving frantically.

Piers stops dead when he sees them.

_Well, he says. I, uh...guess you'd better go._

Chris picks up his backpack and slings it over his shoulders. _C'mere,_ he says, _I'll introduce you._

 _What?_ Piers takes a step backwards. _No, I don't think..._

_I told 'em you were awarded the Purple Heart. They'll wanna meet you, Piers._

He grimaces and pulls the hood tighter over his face. _Not like this._

 _Piers,_ says Chris, exasperated, _you look fine. There's nothing wrong with it, a ton of guys get injured overseas._

Piers looks up at him, shakes his head. _Thanks,_ he says. _But no thanks. I think we should just get our good-byes over with now._

Chris blinks. _But. Uh. What about, you know...having a place to stay? You can crash at my flat for a while- I m mean, it's not like I've got anyone else staying there-_

_No thanks._

_You're not even gonna stay for a beer or something?_

_No thanks._

_Jesus. Okay. Some friend you are._

Piers just looks at him.

 _I mean,_ Chris says, feeling the irritation build in his gut, _I stayed with you in the hospital for, like, a month straight. Until one of the nurses convinced me to go back to the F.O.B. to actually sleep for more than three hours at a time. And then the next morning I was back. You think you could muster up a little more than 'no thanks' for a guy who's just given you every waking moment for the past four weeks?_

 _Chris,_ says Piers, all quiet-like, shaking his head slightly, making his glasses go crooked for the umpteenth time. _If this is the last time we see each other..._

Chris's brow creases. _What do you mean, 'last time-'_

 _I just...don't want it to end in a fight,_ Piers finishes.

 _I...I'm not fighting,_ Chris mutters. _I just don't understand-_

 _Here,_ Piers interrupts, taking something out of his pocket. _Keep it. I sure as hell don't want it anymore._

It's his U.S. Army badge- still crisp at the edges and looking almost-new, except for the blood staining the edges of the fabric.

 _Piers,_ says Chris, and then it's all he can say.

 _Keep it,_ Piers says, then holds out his hand. _It's been...damn good, serving with you._

 _Yeah,_ says Chris, clasping Piers' hand. _Yeah. You...take care of yourself. Give me a call if you ever need me._

There's never enough words for good-byes, but it seems ridiculously hard to think of anything that will last here, now. Chris tells himself that it's probably because they've become such good battle buddies.

But more than that, Piers is looking at Chris differently, in a way that Chris is afraid to name. And when the sniper turns away, suitcase in hand, it's like he's taking a walk that'll be his last.

One of the only regrets Chris has is not going after him.

\----------------------------

He doesn't hear from Piers for three months.

When it comes, the phone call is completely unexpected- especially because it comes at 3 in the morning from an unknown number. He thinks about turning over and going back to sleep. But then he thinks of Mom- _had a cancer scan yesterday-_ and Dad- _at home alone, shit, what if-_ and Claire- _turned 21 last week, all those fucking parties with all that fucking booze-_

He picks up the phone.

_'Lo?_

_C-Chris?_

_Yeah, who'sit?_

_You said I could...c-call if I n-needed you._

Chris sits straight up, eyes flying open. _Piers, is that-_

 _I need...you. I think,_ the sniper whimpers, stammering hard, his voice slow, like it's dripping from a faucet. _S-shit, I n-n-need-_

Chris is already rolling out of bed, searching for a pair of pants, cell pressed to his ear. _Oh, god- where are you? Tell me where you are._

_L-Lincoln Avenue._

_Jesus, Piers, Lincoln is huge. Can you be more specif-_

_Lincoln and S-S-Sibley._

_Shit. Okay, listen, that's about a half an hour away from where I am, so you gotta sit tight, okay? Stay there. Are you okay? Did someone hurt you?_

It takes Piers a while to respond. _I'm c-cold,_ he says finally. _I'm really c-c-cold, Chris-_

_Well no fucking way- it's snowing, you moron!_

_Don't have a coat,_ Piers says thickly. _Don't have...m-much of anything, r-r-really._

Chris gathers up a pile of extra clothes and carries them out to his truck, his free hand gripping the phone. _All right, I'm coming now. I want you to stay on your feet and stay moving, okay? Just walk in circles, keep your hands tucked under your armpits, jump up and down, whatever you need to do to stay conscious. Okay?_

_Y-yeah. K-kay._

_I'll be there as fast as I can._

_Y-yeah._

_I..._ says Chris. _Don't give up on me._

There's no answer from the other line.

\----------------------------

There's frost on the lens of Piers' glasses, when Chris finds him. He wipes it off with his sleeve and half-carries him to the truck.

He's got the sniper bundled up in as many layers as possible, blasting the heat through the vents in the car. _Hypothermia's a bitch,_ he tells Piers, talking nonstop to keep him from sleeping. _I got it once when I was younger- went swimming in winter for a dare and nearly froze my fucking ass off. By the time I got home my lips were literally purple-_

 _Thank you,_ whispers Piers, locking his fingers together in his lap, shivering uncontrollably in the passenger's seat. _Chris, I'm s-_

 _I don't wanna hear it,_ Chris says sharply, but when he glances over at the sniper's pale, thinned face, he softens. _We'll...we'll get you some cocoa when we get inside. And I've got an electric blanket I can pull out from the closet- that oughta warm you up._

Piers lets out a quiet, relieved breath into the collar of his borrowed jacket at the thought of the blanket, flexing his fingers in front of the heating vents. _Y-yeah, okay._

They drive in silence for a few more minutes, with Chris keeping a careful eye on Piers' condition.

 _You gonna tell me what happened to you?_ Chris asks at last. _How you hit bottom?_

Piers shrugs, rubbing his arms, teeth chattering softly. _I d-dunno. I w-was paying rent. I was w-working a job- and then, one day, I...d-didn't show up. And then they f-f-fired me. And then I s-stopped paying rent. And then it was w-winter. And now..."_

 _Is this my fault?_ Chris asks, and Piers shakes his head violently.

_N-no. I would n-never explain it that way._

Chris's voice is quiet. _How would you explain it, then?_

 _I was with you,_ Piers says. _And then I wasn't._

\----------------------------

He moves in.

They never talk about it. They just do it. It just happens. And neither of them question whether it's permanent.

He doesn't own very much. A bag. A pair of shoes. Some clothes. His glasses.

Chris gives him everything he has. Cooks for him. Finds a spare mattress and sets up a bed in one of the extra rooms. Lets him borrow his clothes until they have time to go out and buy him his own.

Piers never knows what to say. And so everything goes unthanked- but never unappreciated.

He loves Chris from afar.

He knows that Chris knows. So it kills him that the older man says nothing, does nothing- never bringing it up, ignoring it when it surfaces.

That being said...Piers takes liberties to make sure that it doesn't surface often.

But then again, there's always days like this one.

Piers is in the bathroom again, leaning over the counter, staring at the mirror, wishing the figure reflected in it would somehow change.

_Too skinny. Not enough muscle. Hair cowlicked on one side._

_Scars._

Yes, it's true that Chris has more scars than he does- littering his arms, the sides of his calfs, the backs of his hands. Piers is sure that he has more- but those are ones that he'll never see, layered beneath clothing that will never be removed- not in his sight, at least, and most certainly not by him, no matter how many times he dreams of it.

 _Piers?_ asks Chris, pounding on the door. _Piers, are you in there? What the hell are you doing? You've been in there for at least a quarter hour._

Piers doesn't reply. Just stares at himself harder. _Change,_ he wishes silently. _Change, change, please. If you weren't so skinny he would look at you. If you had more muscle he would look at you. If your hair didn't stick in the morning he would look at you._

_If, if, if._

Jake used to laugh at him, call it pining. Piers isn't sure if pining is supposed to hurt so much.

 _Piers?_ calls Chris. _Hey, say something, at least. Lemme know you're still alive in there._

It's only half a joke.

It's dumb, Piers knows, to want to change yourself for others. It's dumb.

He can't help it.

 _Piers?_ Chris's voice is getting anxious, now. _Okay, please come out. You're not doin' the mirror thing again, are you? Piers? Are you listening to me?_

 _If, if, if,_ Piers thinks, tracing the ghosts of scars along his brow.

Chris tries the handle of the door. It's locked. _Piers!_ he shouts. _Jesus, babe- say something! I'm gonna break down the fucking door-_

True to his word, the door shakes in its frame as he rams his shoulder against it- again, and again. Piers watches as the wood in the top of the trim actually begins to bend.

_Piers-_

_Chris,_ answers Piers, at last, sighing, stepping away from the mirror. _Stop body-slamming the door._

Chris does, hands pressing up against it instead. _Piers? Jesus- are you okay?_

_I'm fine._

He's not, Chris hears it.

_Talk to me._

How can he?

_I can't._

It's the truth.

 _What is this about?_ Chris asks.

_Nothing._

_You can tell me._

_Nah._

_Okay, fine. I know anyway._

Of course he does.

 _Piers,_ says Chris. _There aren't very many flawless people in this world._

_I know._

_But I think you might be one of them._

Piers blinks.

_I think you're pretty damn near perfect, actually._

Piers clears his throat. _What?_ he says.

 _Open the door,_ says Chris, and Piers does.

They stand there and look at each other for a good while.

 _You okay?_ asks Chris.

 _Yeah,_ says Piers. _Sorry._

_It's okay. C'mon, I'm gonna order some Chinese- you with me?_

_Sure,_ says Piers. _Right there with you._

He doesn't mention that Chris called him _babe,_ or that he had indeed noticed that Chris had kept Piers' army badge taped to the side of the fridge. Chris doesn't mention that Piers had let it slip again, the fact that Piers needed him.

Instead they stay in and look through an online Chinese menu, and when Chris calls and orders he talks in falsetto to make Piers smile, and when they get the food they fight over the potstickers, and when they're done Chris lets out a loud belch and leans back and rubs his stomach and says _not bad, Nivans, huh._

_Not bad at all._

The moment Chris had screamed his name, struggling against Jake, eyes wide and fixed on the Humvee, Piers's heart had been his.

And if he could go back, re-do it? Piers thinks, before he falls asleep that night, that he wouldn't change a thing.

He's glad it was Chris.


End file.
